I didn’t love The Smashing Machine. In fact, I didn’t really like it.
It’s one of the two films to emerge from the so-called “Safdie Divorce”. This year, Benny and Josh Safdie, the directing duo behind Good Time (2017) and Uncut Gems (2019), split and each put out a solo film. I watched Benny’s The Smashing Machine this Fall Break at Coolidge Corner Theater. But, like I said, I didn’t really like it.
Until the last scene.
The entire film builds up to one fight: the 2000 Pride Grand Prix. Mark Kerr, played by Dwayne Johnson, battles addiction, almost loses his future wife, breaks himself down, and builds himself up again, all towards hopefully getting this one win. But he loses. His best friend, Mark Coleman, wins instead. The final scene of the film cuts between the two fighters.
Coleman, the victor, jumps out of the ring into the embracing arms of fans. He pushes past cameras and interviewers to his dressing room. There, he sits alone, the comically large Championship Belt resting at his waist, a tall golden trophy and a massive check for 2 million yen behind him. But he can’t seem to sit still. He keeps looking up and down at the belt, eyes darting around the room.
And then there’s Mark. Leaving the hospital with stitches from his big loss, he limps into the shower. Naked, his bare back is wrought with scars and gashes. He turns the water on and lets it run. Then, he turns around, back against the shower tile, and lets out a big smile— laughing hard.
***
If someone told me my freshman year that I would be leading event planning for Yale College’s entire student body, managing a $75,000 budget, I probably would’ve laughed. I wasn’t a leader of this school. In fact, I actually thought Yale had made a mistake in taking me.
Freshman year was tough. I come from a small city in Louisiana. I was the only student from my high school to attend an Ivy League School, and the first in my family to leave the state. As one of the few southerners at Yale, I constantly felt out of place. So at the end of my freshman year, I found myself at 38 Hillhouse Avenue: the Yale Admissions Office, wondering how I got here in the first place.
According to FERPA, every student has the right to view their college admissions file. When the day finally arrived, before they shared the file, I was told there were only two rules:
- No explanations.
- Absolutely no photos.
But they allowed notes. Sifting through cryptic acronyms and numbers of unknown scales, I scribbled down the one line I understood.
I see Kingson becoming not only a successful and impactful member of society but one who will continue to give back to the communities of which he is a part.
I taped the scrap of paper on my dorm room wall. It’s been there for my entire college career. Reading that note didn’t stop my insecurity— I don’t think anything could. But it did give me an idea of how I could try.
At the end of my Sophomore year, I decided to run for president of my class. I had never once been a part of Yale College Council (YCC). In fact, I don’t even remember attending a meeting. But I felt that student government was the way I could earn my keep. A mediocre academic, my Yale has never been defined by classes. But what I did know was people. Growing up in Louisiana, you’re taught to believe that the world is your extended family. Yale was no different. I wave at everyone, strike up conversations with strangers. Every day, my walk to class becomes a labyrinth as I change routes to match whichever friend I bump into. I wanted to give back to the people who made Yale feel like home. And for me, student government was the purest way to do that.
When I won, the pressure hit me like a boulder. I now had complete freedom to manage the events for the entire class. Entrusted with this responsibility, I had to prove I deserved it. As Junior Class President, I organized at least two events every month, ensuring my class had ample time for connection. I knew our class budget wasn’t enough to accomplish all I wanted to do, so I launched my own Harvard–Yale t-shirt fundraiser, nearly doubling the class budget from $4,350 to $8,666.
But this still didn’t feel like enough. I wanted to find a way to move beyond entertainment, to intention. In the spring of my term, I used the money we raised to plan the First Annual Intercultural Food Market. Over fifteen cultural clubs lined Old Campus with homemade food from their cultures. This gave all Yale students the chance to try food from around the world. We pledged $800 of the money to gift cards to local New Haven restaurants for a raffle. This gave students the chance to explore the wonderful food New Haven has to offer without financial barriers. This was real change. What started as a role born from insecurity now had meaning. I wasn’t just proving I belonged at Yale, I was discovering where I fit in.
I was now met with a dilemma. My term as president was ending, senior year was right around the corner. Tradition says that seniors step back, hang up the gloves. Senior year is a time for reflection, for savoring the last moments of college, and planning what comes after. But I couldn’t stop now. I had finally discovered an answer to the question I had asked since I was a freshman. Why am I here? And what can I do to earn my stay?
Standing on the debate stage of Linsly Chittendan Hall, I launched my campaign for Student Body Events Director with a bold claim: “Resolved: The YCC Events Director has more power than the president.” This line captures the heart of my philosophy for YCC. As Events Director, I can directly give back to New Haven through my events, all the while creating connections between the student body. My policy is simple: every event must source food exclusively from locally owned New Haven restaurants. This keeps Yale’s dollars in the community while also giving students the opportunity to connect with the city. I seek to “pop” the Yale bubble by putting New Haven in every event I run.
At my first event this year, Boolapalooza, we served tacos and guava pastries from La Cayeyana Donis Bakery, a locally owned Puerto Rican restaurant in West Haven. For The Great New Haven Bake-Off, I asked five bakeries within walking distance from the school for one menu item everyone must try. I hoped that students would discover new favorites and support these businesses themselves after getting the opportunity to try them for free. This month, we are hosting a clothing-drive game night: students compete for prizes like concert tickets or Airpods, but entry requires donating an item of clothing to Loaves and Fishes, a grassroots nonprofit that runs a food pantry and clothing drive for the city. But taking this weighty role my senior year has not been without stress.
There’s something that affects every Yale student who leads a club, I like to call the Galileo Fallacy. At Yale, everyone has their “thing”: an extracurricular, a dance group, a publication, something that demands their full energy. When you’re that deeply invested, it’s easy to start believing everything depends on you, that if you stop moving, everything falls apart. In the past, everyone believed the universe revolved around the Earth. It wasn’t until Galileo came along with a telescope and some theories proving that it was actually the Sun at the center all along. When you’re leading a club, it’s easy to feel like you are at the center of everything, that every move you make has an impact on a cosmic level.
I give my all to YCC. Whenever I have an event, I clear my entire day in case something goes wrong. For Boolapalooza, I woke up to twelve missed calls at 8 a.m.—Home Depot had mixed up the delivery, and the plants were back at the store. I didn’t let this stop me. I rented a U-Haul, drove to East Haven, and hauled the trays of plants back to Old Campus myself. It’s empowering to feel like the center of the world, to believe you alone hold everything together—but it’s also terrifying. One wrong move, and it feels like the planets could fall out of alignment at your feet.
***
I still think back to that final scene. And why it meant so much to me while watching it. Kerr stands alone, at the end of his rope, bruised and battered from giving his all to a fight he ultimately lost. Yet, he smiles. He turns around to face the camera and see himself. In that moment, naked, stripped to his rawest form, he was still there even without the title. He realizes that without the belt, he was still Mark.
As I near the end of my time at Yale, my final year, while most of my peers have stepped back from extracurriculars, I made the decision to take the third-most-important position in Yale College Council. I started this journey to battle my insecurity and prove I belonged at an institution like Yale. But I’m not doing this for validation anymore. Like Mark, I understand that the belt doesn’t define me; it’s the fight. It is the person I’ve become leading this club. I’ve taken what Yale has given me and given it back tenfold, giving back to New Haven and the school in my own special way. I will continue to do this work until I leave Yale, giving my all to a school that took a chance on me.
